had leisure to think about getting married myself—and now I am too old!”
Honest Francisco evidently did not think how beautiful was this short unpretending autobiography; he looked pious, and full of peace, and seemed quite satisfied with his four ragazzi.
As we approached the steps which ascend to Isola Madre, I saw that the stone girdle which surrounds the green island was fastened by a door; but scarcely had we touched the land at the foot of the steps, before the door was opened by a young man, who welcomed the solitary stranger with evident pleasure. He was the young warder of this little earthly paradise,—for Isola Madre is an actual little paradise, where a number of beautiful and rare plants have been collected from many countries of the world, and grouped here with such beautiful art, that you merely seem conscious of the loveliness of nature. Aloes, which blossom every century, grow here with the pine trees of the north. One wanders through the most charming groves of laurels and camelias; cedars stretch forth their shadowy branches over the soft, flowery turf; tea-trees grow amongst roses; along the stone wall shines out the bright amaranthus; lemon and orange blossoms diffuse their fragrance from lofty espaliers, and outside the wall, upon the rocks, grow colossal cacti, which give a tropical character to the scene. I recognized many plants which I had seen in America and Cuba. Doves cooed, and golden pheasants marched along the shadowy alleys of verdant growths, with their splendid blossoms and berries. Whichever way I looked, there was something beauti-
